


worship (in fruit and wine and) and

by theholychesse



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Artsy Porn, Body Worship, Cunnilingus, F/F, Fingerfucking, Fruit, Mild Sacrilege, Plot What Plot, Porn Without Plot, its very horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 05:26:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16655047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theholychesse/pseuds/theholychesse
Summary: The Doctor smells just like a persimmon tastes.Yasmin wonders if she tastes just as sweet.





	worship (in fruit and wine and) and

It’s a rare moment of peace for the two of them. The boys have gone off back home, to deal with Ryan’s dad. Yasmin and the Doctor had tried to come along; They were family. Any issue, no matter how dark, how bleak, was the matter of the family.  
  
But Ryan had showed steel in his eyes, stood tall and straight, and had told them that this was his burden to bear.

Yaz would have gone home. But the Doctor had a sudden craving for grapes from this one planet from the other end of the universe—And who was Yasmin to refuse her?  
  
Grapes led to other fruit. To cherries, more dark purple than dark red, with pits so small they felt like banana seeds in her mouth. Kiwis, more sweet than the near-painful acid Yaz knew all too well. Apples, large and crimson and shiny, and when bitten down sour-sweet juices spilt into the mouth. Pears, large and butter-yellow, with soft, smooth skin, and flesh so sweet and so ripe that they had to be eaten near-ceremoniously, with copious napkins nearby.  
  
And persimmons. Yasmin’s favourite fruit. It’s an odd one, and so rare, and at times expensive. But there’s something about the brightness of the skin, of the way the skin is so hard to bite at times. The duality of persimmons and their deliciousness: Wonderful when both a touch hard, crunching like a honey-sweet apple, and when completely ripe, soft and melting at the tongue.

This planet also happened to specialize in fruit-wines, to which Yasmin was always a slut for. And who was the Doctor to refuse her?

They stumbled back to the TARDIS, already warm and languid on watermelon wine, on wine made from lavender and heather and honeydew melons. Crinkling bags swayed in their hands, and the amount of times that Yaz, in her stumbling drunkenness, bumped shoulders, bumped hips, bumped hands against the Doctor—Why, it could only be matched by the amount of times the Doctor bumped against her, soft in areas where Yaz was all hardness, hard in areas where she was soft.

The conspiratorial grin they shared, when hips bumped against hips at just the right time, in tandem, made something burn under the sturdy bones of Yasmin’s ribs.

They found themselves sprawled over a couch—A couch that was a soft pink hue, and had room for about four people, or, a sprawled and tipsy Doctor and Yaz.  
  
Yaz wondered if how the Doctor got drunk was just like how humans did, via gulping down a poison which the liver fought as if it was in a driven war for survival. Or—Yaz wonders if, perhaps, just like the Doctor does with other things, like toxins and anesthetics and coffee, the Doctor  _chose_ to get drunk.

Yaz wonders if it’s pity, at the root of it. Or perhaps something fonder, something softer. Something better, something more unluckily unlikely.  
  
Yaz has kicked off her heels, and her sore feet are up high on the table in front of them, the table laden with sweets and fruits and little cute bottles of alien wine. The Doctor’s taken off her coat, letting the volume of her loose blouse spill out into the air, ruffly and frilly and silken. As Yaz watches, the Doctor’s crimson lipstick smudges and stains when she takes a sip out of a glass of some dark blue and sparkling drink.  
  
“Can I try?” Yaz asks. Thoughtlessly, the Doctor hands the drink over. Yaz places her lips over where the Doctor’s were, over the imprint of red on transparent glass—Where warmth still lingers, fleeting and quick, even still—And feels the gentle chemical taste of her lipstick, tastes the sugary burn of the drink. Yasmin tastes saliva and she tastes fruit and she tastes the Doctor.  
  
Yasmin savours.

The Doctor’s eyes are gold and black, black pupils on hazel-gold irises, and they stare, as Yasmin pulls the glass away, and pinpricks of red are left on her lips.  
  
When Yasmin’s tongue, slow and clumsy and pink, ghosts over her lips, the Doctor’s eyes follow, pupils swollen like a full moon. And when Yasmin, unconsciously, takes the corner of her lip into her mouth, teeth pulling until little lines form, the Doctor watches with the intensity of a blue-hot star.

When their eyes meet, at long last—A certain level of coolness settles over them. But only just. It’s a small breeze to the fire that lies at the heart of them both—And instead of cringing away, in shame, Yasmin peers back.  
  
The corner of the Doctor’s lip rises, in a slight, lopsided grin, and Yasmin wonders how the point of it would taste to her tongue.  
  
The Doctor glances away, and her grin picks up both sides of her lips, tugging them up, as she makes a fond little sound through her exhale.  
  
Yasmin glances down at the drink in her hands—Watches the glint of it, in the low, dirty yellow lighting of the room. Yasmin’s eyes slide over, and watches the soft glint of the Doctor’s eyeshadow, metallic and faintly glittering, on her eyelids. All that glitters is not gold, eh?

The Doctor reaches over, and from a bag, plucks a pear, spotted with smudges of soft orange and red. The stem is still green, and the skin still smells of the countryside. The Doctor leans back, ankle balanced on a knee clad in an ivory and airy pair of dress pants—And without ceremony, without care for the mess, the Doctor’s white teeth sink into skin that parts and makes way instantly.

The pear bleeds down the corner of her lip, down her chin. The Doctor’s tongue laps at the bite, sucking away the juices, but there’s still that bit crawling towards the Doctor’s pretty blouse—

And Yasmin leans in, and the warmth, the wetness, of her tongue is licking at the sickly-sweet juice at her chin, starting from the bottom of the stream, lapping up, until there’s only a bare spot left at the very most far corner of the Doctor’s mouth. Yasmin’s hand comes up, and wipes away the lingering juice at her lips, and a smidge of her lip gloss, too—And she looks up, and sees brief—Shock? Surprise? Manifesting in slightly parted lips, in wide eyes, in dark brows that are just the bit furrowed.  
  
Yasmin gulps, and she wonders if the burn of hatred is greater than that of love.

And then the Doctor’s mouth closes. Her brows relax. And a smile, loose and simple, fond and soft, pulls at her lips, and Yasmin’s heart, which had shifted to throb and scream in the pit of her belly, rises to flutter rabbit-quick under the length of her sternum.  
  
“Oh, Yaz.” She breathes. A hand presses to the back of Yasmin’s hair, fingers coiling with strands which Yaz had carefully curled, for the night—And the press of the Doctor’s slim, warm hands against her scalp, a pinky at the back of her neck—It makes Yaz shudder and shake. A hand settles on the small of her back, and Yaz’s own, curious, and nervous, oh-so nervous hands—Find a home at the side of the Doctor’s neck, at the angle of the Doctor’s waist.

Yaz’s kiss is clumsy, too hard, pressing forward and not yielding enough at the lips. But the Doctor doesn’t mind—Her face tilts up, mouth pursed, lips gentle and nibbling at her—Her eyes are half-lidded, and Yaz feels the weight of gold eyes upon her like a weight.  
  
Yaz shifts from a half-slumped, half-sprawled position over the Doctor’s midsection, moving her legs up, pressing her calves against the Doctor’s thighs, until she’s flush against her, rump against thighs, her thighs, her calves, her arms, her torso, caging the Doctor, leaving her with the couch at her back and Yasmin all around her.

The Doctor does not overtly mind the fact that her entire world, now, is Yaz.  
  
The Doctor’s head is tilted up, and Yasmin is learning the Doctor’s taste, the feeling of her against her lips, as carefully and meticulously as a scientist would. Her hands cup and splay over the Doctor’s flushed, hot cheeks, and she tastes fruit and lipstick and wine on the Doctor’s lips. The kiss is shallow, all moving, flush lips, all hotness and bare spit, but that’s more than alright.  
  
Until it’s not. Until something dark and wicked inside of Yasmin goes, ‘ _Devour her_ ,’ And Yaz, ever obedient, presses her front against the Doctor’s, feels the swell of her breasts against her, and dips the Doctor’s head back, fingers hungrily holding as much flesh as possible, making the flesh of her cheeks dip, as the kiss grows sloppier; Deeper, the movements of her lips hungry and claiming, mouthing at lips which happily reciprocate—  
  
With a hand clutching the back of her neck, pressed against her back, Yasmin feels glorious and godly. The movement of their tongues over each each is electrifying—And Yasmin rocks back and forth, eager to claim more, to go deeper, but she just physically _can’t,_ and Yasmin feels the burn of delight, of happiness, of eagerness, burn deep and deep and deep inside of her, as the Doctor’s thighs, unconsciously, spread a little bit, as her arms tighten around her, demanding to hold Yasmin as close as the laws of time and space would allow, flesh flush against flesh, sloppy, drunken body part against sloppy drunken body part—  
  
The Doctor breaks the kiss apart with a simple movement of her head, the back of her head gently smacking against the couch, as she breathes, gloriously ruddy and florid, from the top of her ears to the bottom of her cheeks—  
  
And Yasmin breathes, breathes, _breathes,_ breathes in the Doctor’s scent, her femaleness, the fruit and wine and want rolling off her—And tenderly, carefully, she kisses and she laps at the corner of the Doctor’s mouth, tasting the final sweetness of the pear, as the Doctor makes a shuddering exhale under her.  
  
The Doctor’s lips are red with kissing, eyes glazed with want and heat, and the sudden flood of pride inside of Yaz consumes her from head to toe.  
  
There is a long, tense moment, where all that occurs is this: The meeting of eyes, hazel-brown-gold to simple bark-brown, a world of communication occurring between them, a story told in the tilts of lids, in the fluttering of eyelashes, the glinting of eyelids—  
  
“Shall we?” The Doctor asks. Her voice is low, and on the verge of being husky. Something unsightly at the base of Yasmin’s spine sings at the sound.    
  
Yasmin isn’t quite sure what she’s asking. And yet, despite this, Yasmin makes this slightest of nods, rising up from the Doctor, putting shaky feet on the ground—Offering a hand, warm from the Doctor’s flesh, sticky from fruit, to her.  
  
The Doctor takes it, and her fingers curl, wan and soft, and Yasmin’s hands shift to interlock. The Doctor’s fingers fill up the spaces between her fingers, and Yasmin’s fingers fill up the spaces between hers.  
  
Yasmin is flushed, and grinning, from ear to ear, soft and rosy and tender. And she holds the Doctor’s hand, and leads her on—Passing by the table, by the sofa, and the Doctor almost stumbles over Yaz’s fallen heels—But laughs and side steps over them, at the last moment.  
  
Yaz—Yaz doesn’t know where she’s taking them, until she does. Until the pale wood of her bedroom door is there, suddenly there, and she uses the purchase of it, the convenient surface, to press the Doctor up against it, and kiss her from the corner of her lip, down her chin, down to the sensitive, bobbing skin of her throat—  
  
And when Yaz’s teeth, experimentally, oh-so gently, take some of the skin at the Doctor’s neck in her teeth, and she _tugs—_  
  
The sound that comes out of the Doctor, high and shaky, sinful and guttural, makes Yaz wish to be a musician. Someone learned in making instruments sing. She would love to learn to draw out every sound out of the Doctor, and learn each note and song of her.  
  
“ _Yaz_ —” The sound is high and airy, shaky and thin, _pleading_ —And the Doctor’s hands fiddle with the doorknob—Yaz finishes opening it for her, and when the Doctor almost stumbles back, almost landing flat on her ass, but Yaz holds her up, holds her up by the waist and the arm, flush against her chest, her thigh, face pressed into skin which is just shy of the Doctor’s bosom.  
  
She peers up, and the Doctor’s eyes have been consumed by the hungry moons of her pupils.

Yaz presses, and presses, pushing the Doctor back and back, until the Doctor finds softness at her knees, and bends back, letting the ground, or, rather, the bed, messy and pale and with a fair few stains from split tea or midnight snacks on it, suck her up.  
  
Yaz doesn’t let the Doctor have even the slightest moment of reprieve—Pressing a hot, sloppy kiss against her lips, her lips which take a second to respond in enthusiastic consent, sliding a hand down her side, hungry, oh-so hungry— _God_ , Yaz didn’t know she had such a capacity for hunger—For she _wants and wants and wants_ and does not know if anything, if anything, if anything at all or everything in the world will or could satiate the hot sting of it at the back of her throat.

Her lips, ravenous and claiming, hot and kissing and nibbling at careful, sensitive areas which make the Doctor’s breath hitch, which make her make little mewling, little moaning noises under her breath—Yaz’s lips learn the shape and the form and the sensitivity of her neck, marking the sweetest areas just like a cartographer would. Her hands, just as hungry as the rest of her, hold onto the softness, the point, the roundness of her hips, fingers pressing down until, even through the layers of clothes, she feels her fingers dipping down into the Doctor’s flesh.  
  
Yasmin’s knee moves between the Doctor’s thighs, and the Doctor, eager for the touch, eager for the feeling of it, spreads her thighs just enough, until the warmth of the Doctor’s thighs surround Yasmin, and Yaz feels—  
  
Yaz’s knee shifts, unconsciously, or perhaps consciously, and the Doctor’s hips stutter forward, the Doctor’s exhale is gargled and choked and tight, her lids tight and closed, the shine of her eyeshadow gleaming, barely there, in the dim light of the room.  
  
“Do you—Do you—Do you want—” Yaz asks, out of breath, voice a timbre lower, with her voice just a little bit raw, and the Doctor nods, nods, nods, head moving the fabric of the sheet, nods and then opens her eyes just the little bit and says,  
  
“ _Yes_.” And even though the two of them aren’t wholly sure what they’re agreeing to—The confirmation, the affirmation, that Yaz is doing good enough for the Doctor to want more—The burn of it sits in her gut, just right next to the burn in her gut which gets worse when she sees the heave of the Doctor’s chest, sees the way it subtly, just subtly, affects the shape and movement of her breasts, the shape of them just barely visible behind the blouse—  
  
“Then more is what you’ll get.” Yaz says, and she has no idea why she does—But she does. Yaz’s lips return to a well-loved spot, a spot that’s going a little red already, an area that’s still shining with Yaz’s spit—And Yaz goes down, kissing and sucking and nibbling, and pays special attention to her collarbones, pointy and jutting and all-together there, as if begging for the abuse.  
  
Her lips reach the fabric of the Doctor’s blouse, and her eyes go up. The Doctor, noticing the stop, has her brows furrow for one adorable, confused little moment—And then she nods, almost fervently so—And so Yaz slides her hand under the thin silk fabric, pulling up and up, and the Doctor helps, wiggling out of it just like an eel and letting the fabric slide off her chest and shoulders and arms and—  
  
And Yaz blinks, because she had been expecting—She had been expecting black or white or, god forbid, some tacky kind of green fabric—But there’s—There’s—  
  
There’s _nothing._ The Doctor is bare, and her nipples, perhaps to the cold, perhaps in reaction to Yaz’s touch—Are hard and pointed, on her breasts. And the breath is stolen out of Yasmin’s chest because because because—  
  
Because this is really happening.  
  
Because the Doctor is so _beautiful._

The Doctor is splayed, raw and wanting, on Yasmin’s bed. Her hay-hued hair is fanned out like a halo around her head, on Yasmin’s pillow. The Doctor’s hands are holding onto the sturdiness of Yasmin’s shoulder. The Doctor’s face is flushed, her lips red, eyes half lidded and pupils swollen, and her neck is marred in little reddening formless shapes or, even, the impression of teeth. As the Doctor’s breath heaves, as her chest heaves, her breasts shift every so slightly, too, the softness, the roundness of them, shifting and moving with her breath.

Yasmin feels pinpricks of moisture at the corners of her eye, and she wonders why she’s chosen now, of all times, to get sappy.  
  
The Doctor looks up at her—Looks up at her, through hooded eyes, and smiles with lips which have been smudged with her red lipstick and Yasmin’s pink lipgloss, and the brightness, the innocence, the love there—  
  
A hand rises up, and wipes at the corners of her eyes. It takes Yasmin a good minute to realize that it’s not her own.  
  
“You’re so good to me.” The Doctor says, the words true and soft and tender. The words pass through the Doctor’s just barely open, reddened lips, and they shine with love.  
  
Yaz feels the flush on her face reach down to grasp her neck in a possessive grip, and feels, for once in her life, worthy of this love.  

Yaz smiles a dumb, a dumb fucking smile, beaming at the Doctor, and while the Doctor doesn’t smile any brighter—Her eyes crinkle more, shine more, in love and want and happiness and glee.  
  
Yaz uses the moment to do something she’s wanted to do for _months._

Her hands grab onto the Doctor’s breasts, and the Doctor _laughs,_ amusement and titillated, peering down at Yaz’s groping hands, possessive and disbelieving, as they grasp onto the soft orbs of her breasts. “Handsy, are we?” She asks, and Yaz just answers with making a gruff, and horribly embarrassed, huff.  
  
Yaz rolls the breasts, in her hands, and the Doctor is brightly amused by this, until the point when Yaz’s thumbs skim over the hard points of her nipples. The Doctor’s breath stutters, and her hold on Yaz’s shoulders tightens for just the moment—  
  
Yaz hums, low and pleased, and lets her hands slip down the Doctor’s body—Learning not only the roundness of her breasts, but the angle of her ribcage, feeling the tender meat at the point where rib and belly met, feeling the smoothness of the Doctor’s stomach, the curve of her waist, until her hands rest under the Doctor, on the small of her back, pinkies so terribly shy of the Doctor’s waistband that, if she or the Doctor breathes a little wrong, they slip past the fabric of her trousers.

Yaz’s lips, her mouth, has come to finish what she’s started—And the Doctor’s breath speeds up, her skin flushes with heat and colour even more, as Yaz draws to her breast—And the Doctor makes these high, weepy little sound, as she lightly, carefully, sucks onto her breast, and finds a sensitive spot just above her nipple—  
  
And when her tongue grazes over the point of it, over pink and aching flesh, accidentally, the Doctor makes a low _whimper._ And Yaz—Oh—Oh—Oh—Oh does Yaz want to learn to make the Doctor make _that_ sound, again and again and again and—

And then Yaz takes a nipple into her mouth, areola and all, and mouths at it, sucking with as little pressure as possible—And the Doctor _arches_ off the bed, spine curling, hands so tight in the fabric of Yasmin’s shirt as to almost threaten to rip holes in it—  
  
“Oh, oh, oh Yaz, you’re so good, you’re—” The praise comes airy and stuttering from the Doctor, and Yasmin, oh, oh, oh she’s so weak for this, weak for the Doctor praising her, in her usual cheeriness, her usual truth, and Yaz, Yaz—  
  
Yaz wants, so utterly, so completely, so irresponsibly and magnificently. And a hand slides down the Doctor’s waistband, into uncharted territory, to grope and press at the curve of the Doctor’s ass, as Yaz mouths and sucks and even presses teeth, gently, very gently, against the very tip of the Doctor’s nipple—Something that makes her buck back, the side of her face pressed in the sheets, something suspiciously like a curse coming off her lips—

“Yaz, please, I need—” The Doctor’s voice is so light, that Yaz is not wholly sure that what she heard was the Doctor’s voice, or some sort of magnificent hallucination—  
  
“Please—” No, no, mostly _definitely real_ —The Doctor is quaking under her hands, and even as her hand softly kneads at the soft, all-too real expanse of her ass, a hand and a mouth at her breasts—The Doctor wants _more._

A more that Yaz is more than happy to provide.  
  
“—What do you need?” Comes tumbling out, thick and husky and _right_ out of her, before she thinks, or doesn’t think, to do anything else. Yaz—Oh god, Yaz has _no idea where that came from oh god_ —  
  
“I—I—I—” The Doctor, at a loss for words. Call the presses. Just to help her along, Yaz kisses the underside of one breast, and has her fingers feel at the line between her cheeks, fingers just shy of a place that gives off a low wet heat, a something that calls to Yaz in a sweet sirensong—  
  
“You—I need—You—Can you—Can you—” Sparing some mercy, Yaz nods, nods into the skin of the Doctor’s belly, chin rubbing against smooth flesh, and feels the sigh, the relief, the rush of arousal pass through the Doctor’s body.

Yaz listens to the twin _pitterpatter_ of the Doctor’s hearts, feeling the heaving of her chest, the pumping of her blood, the twitches of her body in want—Yaz peers up at the Doctor, at the Doctor’s who’s peering right back, and wonders if this is what love feels like.

Yaz kisses down—But makes little fanfare of it. She reaches the Doctor’s belly, her lower belly—Feels the beginnings of downy hair, and her thumbs hook into the waistband of the Doctor’s trousers, tugging down and down, with the aid of the wriggling Doctor, until the trousers have been tossed to the side, somewhere—  
  
And here, she at least has _pants_ on. Panties, thin and laced, a hue of midnight blue, and Yaz has a brilliant, wonderful moment where she imagines the Doctor lounging around, casually, in nothing more than her panties and—  
  
And to quench her thirst, her want, she heads for the sopping area that calls to her. She’s sure to be looking up, looking at the Doctor—As she noses, gently, almost _teasingly_ —At the oval wet spot in the Doctor’s panties, and the sight of her, the sight of Yaz with her hands around the Doctor’s hips, her face burrowed in the cleft of her nethers—  
  
The Doctor makes some vague, gargled little noise, and her face is as bright as a moon, as a sun, and the warmth that the Doctor radiates, the constant low heat which is just cranking up, seems to be burning away every apprehension and insecurity and scornful little thing inside of Yaz.  
  
When Yaz’s cheeky tongue presses against the wet spot—Tasting musk and tasting sweetness, tasting a most definitely inhuman faint electricity—The Doctor’s chest quivers, in tight pleasure.  
  
Yaz’s hands pull down the Doctor’s underwear—Raising a leg, with a groping, wanton little hand, and pulls it off her ankle—And the hand, which rested at a point just above her knee, treads down, and down, and down, past the soft, almost invisible hair at her thigh, until her fingers press against something wet and firm and hot—  
  
The Doctor makes a low _sob,_ all high and wet and pleading, and this—  
  
This is Yaz’s apotheosis.  
  
Yaz’s fingers trace the outline of the Doctor’s labia, and the Doctor’s hips thrust up, ever-so, eager for more, for more touch, for Yaz’s fingers to skirt a little closer—  
  
And they do. And they do. Because Yaz’s thumb dips in, and she presses the pad of her thumb against the erect point of the Doctor’s clit—Barely applying even the slightest bit of pressure—And the noise the Doctor makes, the noise she makes, high in her throat that comes out of an open, panting mouth, a mouth made red and ruined by _Yaz_ —  
  
Yaz dips low, again, and replaces her thumb with something infinitely better. The curious tip of her moist tongue. And her tongue swirls at her clit, oh-so gentle—  
  
The Doctor’s thighs shake and clench, her belly tight and quivering. And Yaz learns this:  
  
The Doctor tastes like sweetness. Like honey. Like pure and utter sugariness. Like faint musk and the even fainter tinge of electricity. There is an addictive quality to her—Even as Yaz is inexperienced at this, is someone who’s never done this with a human woman—She somehow knows, deep in her heart, deep under her shuddering bones,  that no human woman would taste like _this._

Like candy. Like wine. Like fruit. Like a persimmon, held in her hand, bleeding and wet and sweet, dribbling down her chin until she’s sticky and raw and ruined.  
  
Yaz’s tongue swipes over the Doctor’s entrance—And a hand reaches down, to tangle in Yaz’s lightly perfumed hair. That hand grips, tight, tight, tight, when Yaz’s tongue ghosts over the shape of her hole, surveying the terrain faithfully and utterly. “ _Yaz Yaz Yaz Yaz_ —” Is a faint little breathless mantra the Doctor is whispering—It’s like a prayer, spoken to a god who will give her everything and anything she would ever need.  
  
Yaz may not be a god, not of any sort or any kind, but she would do the latter: She would give blood and limb and hot hot tears for the Doctor. She knows this as truly and wholly as she does the fact that she wants to see the Doctor melt into a sweet pleasured weeping mess for her.

Yaz’s hands slip slightly down, to hold down the Doctor’s thighs, and Yaz buries her head between the quivering, pale warmth of her soft thighs—And she presses the timid point of her tongue in—And feels flesh give oh-so easily, feels lubrication coat her tongue as if purposefully seeking her out—  
  
The Doctor _screams_ , the sound breathless and tight, and Yaz sneaks a look up at her—And sees the Doctor’s head thrown back, neck arching, her eyelids clamped shut in pleasure—  
  
The Doctor likely hasn’t experienced this before. Not as a woman. There is—There is something intoxicating, here, at the thought. Of being the first one to do this to her—To explore her, thoroughly and utterly, until there is not one unknown spot of her left.  
  
Yaz’s chin tilts, and she presses in—And the Doctor’s thighs all but _smash_ against her, pressing so tightly, so wantonly—Yaz presses her entire tongue in, and she feels the Doctor taking her in, her walls quivering around her, clenching around the girth of her tongue—The hand in her hair is all but pulling her hair out at the _root_ —And while Yaz’s ears are muffled by the Doctor’s thighs she can still hear—  
  
“ _Yaz Yaz Yaz oh you’re so good to me oh Yaz you’re so good you’re so good so kind so so_ —” It’s a garbled mess of praise, of begging and nonsense words spoken just for the relief of it—   
  
But they make the intense burn between Yasmin’s legs heat all the greater.  
  
Yaz’s thumb slips low, and presses against the warm point of the Doctor’s clit, as Yaz, carefully, slowly, as if testing it out, rotates her tongue inside of the Doctor, stretching her until she can’t stretch any more—  
  
And then Yaz’s head, her chin, her face shifts—And she mouths, as if kissing fervently, at the Doctor, mouthing against sensitive wetness, her thumb rubbing in circles against the Doctor’s clit, feeling her hood rise and fall a little bit with each circular motion—  
  
Yaz feels as if she is eating—Eating away at a sopping piece of fruit which threatens to dribble down all of her, and so, she eats and she eats just to keep up. And she does here. She eats to keep up with the Doctor’s want, with the growing hitch of her breath, the trembling of her entire body, the curl to her toes—Tongue lapping at her insides, sometimes even reaching up to surround and press at the Doctor’s sensitive nub—She makes these horrific wet sounds, eating to her heart’s content—  
  
“ _Oh Yaz—_ ” It’s said in the same way one would say ‘ _Oh god_ ,’ and Yaz, in this moment, realizes that to the Doctor she is one and the same.

Yaz grabs the Doctor’s thighs, to lift her hips up, to place her legs over her shoulders, to have her exposed and open to the world—Tilting her up so she can reach all the deeper, so that she can find out and explore all of the Doctor, until there is not one place unknown to her—  
  
“ _Yaz_.” It’s a sigh; It’s a low, tension-filled little sound—A wet, pleading sob, a mewl, a whimper and a high moan all at once—And the Doctor, her hole, clamps so possessively, so utterly, around Yaz that she _knows_ —And she keeps it going, even as her jaw begins to ache, her tongue tired and sluggish—She milks the Doctor’s orgasm out, eating and lapping and devouring even in those sensitive moments after orgasm, even as the Doctor clearly feels like it’s too much, as she _weeps_ from over-stimulation, spit wet and fresh on her chin, arms shaking, hand and thighs and body going slack all at once.  
  
The Doctor looks like she’s just been experienced a divine experience, like she’s just had the absolute fuck of her life—And—And _does_ Yaz glow at the thought of that, at having done this, all of this, to her darling Doctor.  
  
“Let me—” The Doctor’s voice is so thin, so wasted, that it’s barely audible—And Yaz shakes her head.  
  
“No. It’s all you, here, now. Just give me—” Yaz sits up, so fast that her head swims a little bit—And god god god god does she _want,_ she’s never been this fucking wet in her entire _life_ —And she grabs the Doctor’s wrist, and, as the Doctor realizes what she wants, the Doctor helps too—Yaz guides the hand into her trousers, into her panties, and the Doctor makes a low, surprised, pleased gasp when she feels the utter wetness at Yasmin’s womanhood—And she understands what to do very quickly, even if her movements are sloppy and sluggish, in her post-coital bliss.  
  
A thumb rubs, down and round, at her clit—And Yaz thrusts up at the hand, wanting _more and more_ —A finger enters Yaz, and almost immediately afterwards another—The fingers moving in tandem, fucking in and out of her, rubbing her nub—And Yaz shifts her hips down, letting herself get fucked by the Doctor’s fingers, and it’s not long, not long at all, until—  
  
Yaz’s forehead presses into the bare skin of the Doctor’s neck—And she drools, embarrassingly, onto her chest, mouth open in the silent scream of her orgasm—And the Doctor has no mercy too, fucking her until Yaz’s hips, her body, her self stops shaking, until she just whimpers, lowly, into the Doctor’s chest.  
  
The hand retracts, slowly, as if wishing to linger longer—And in Yaz’s periphery, she watches the hand slide up to the Doctor's flushed face.  
  
She watches the Doctor lap at one finger—Pink tongue curling around her digit, licking off the glossy thickness of Yaz’s lubrication like it’s mere juice at her fingertips.  
  
Her smile is pleased, and satiated.  
  
Yaz sits up, for one last final moment—She’s pulling off her shirt, her bra, her trousers and her pants—She’s exhausted, and so is the Doctor, so it’s not for _that_ —But it’s so she can learn and feel the hot press of their bodies together, in their post-coital bliss.  
  
And here, briefly, Yaz surveys.  
  
She sees the Doctor’s eyes glow like yellow plums. The ruddiness at her cheeks, at her body, like the glow of a crisp apple. She sees a platter of mangos, of grapefruit, of grapes and of dragonfruit at her breasts. The spent wetness of her womanhood is an expanse of pears and oranges and mandarins, her thighs little knocking persimmons and nectarines, and sees a feast worth eating for every single day of her life.  
  
She sees a spread table for her, a meal, a lifetime of fulfillment and fullness, and Yaz doesn’t know, doesn’t think, that she’ll need anything else at all in her entire life.  
  
Yaz presses gently against the Doctor, and kisses her. She finds a lifetime of meaning and belonging in the flowers and wines and fruit at her lips, and tastes it, sweet and spiced, in the depths of her singing heart.

**Author's Note:**

> whoda fucking guessed the doctor is a pillow princess 
> 
> true end to this story: doc runs to the bathroom and proceeds to be very sick because she's still allergic to pears. or just hates them. whatever the whole pear tale is
> 
> to all those who're waiting for my other fic to update: i am.,,,,,,,,,,,, so sorry,,,,,,, i just had to be horny on main first


End file.
